


The Land of the Summer Stars

by HiLarpItsCat



Series: Evie's Backstory [5]
Category: Scion (Tabletop RPG)
Genre: Arthurian legend - Freeform, F/M, TBD IC Canon (I think)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-06 01:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6732052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiLarpItsCat/pseuds/HiLarpItsCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As he said, "it's a long story"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Land of the Summer Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Since Ellis is just a character that I invented to be part of Evie's backstory, I'm not entirely sure how in-canon this actually is.

#### 1\. Wales, the sixth century

It was as though he had lived his life out of order. One minute he was old, the next minute he was young, and the next minute he was old again. 

Tal used to have another name, long ago. He could discern only brief flashes--a cauldron, a fish, a bird, a barn--but whenever he tried to pin it down, it would slip away and his mind would drown in poetry. 

There was a vicious scar on his thumb from a burn that he didn't remember getting.

His father still marveled over how early he learned to talk. "You were such a tiny, white thing when I found you on the shore," his father would say. "I thought you had drowned. And the strange things you would say! I always knew you would be a poet." 

He never knew where his verses came from. It was as though he contained a deep well, full of words, and no matter what he did the well would overflow and everything would Change. 

He tried to imagine what it would be like to be a fisherman like his father. To not have to express all of the strange and terrible things living inside of him. To be silent if he wanted to.

* * *

#### 2\. Badon Hill

Afaon's grave was nothing but a pile of stones now. The battle was long over. But Tal came back to visit the grave of his son every year.

This year, though, there was someone waiting for him.

Tal couldn't see the stranger's face behind the hood he wore. Tal didn't have anything to say to him, so he merely stood silently and waited for something to happen. 

"It's difficult," the stranger said, "losing a son."

"Have we met?" Tal asked coldly.

"Not until now, but I do know you. I know your story. I've heard your poems. 'Which was first, is it darkness, is it light?' That's always the question, isn't it?"

"I haven't been a bard for a long time," Tal said. It was true: that well had run dry after Afaon died.

"You have not been many things for a very long time," said the stranger. "Even longer than you know, Gwion Bach ap Gwreang." He snapped his fingers in front of Tal's nose. 

Memories hit him like a great wave from the sea.

The sea.

He had been in a bag, tossed in the sea. But by who?

A woman. A mad sorceress. He took something from her. Something important. She had chased him so far and in so many different forms. And then she caught him, finally, and devoured him in the dark. 

And then she threw him into the sea.

He had changed. He was always changing.

What was he? What was his shape now?

a raven  
a fox  
a deer  
a squirrel  
a fire  
a sword  
a bull

An infant, pulled white and cold from the sea. 

A poet, full to the brim with divine madness.

Now an old man, on his knees on a hilltop, screaming. 

It was as though he had lived his entire life out of order. 

What _was_ he?

"Listen to me," said the stranger, grabbing him by the shoulders and stopping his screams. "Listen: the ones who killed your boy, they are coming back. There will be more fighting, more deaths."

"They're never going to stop," he rasped. He knew, somehow, that this was true. They were going to come and come and never stop.

"But listen," the stranger said, more insistently. "They have help. Greater than human help. They have gods."

He knew that this was true as well, somehow. 

"Our armies can drive off their armies," said the stranger, "but who will drive off their gods?"

He knew: "We will," he said, gripping the strangers shoulders with both hands. They knelt like that together, bracing one another, united in purpose. 

"We are not mere mortals," the stranger said. "We are more. We are changable. We know the secrets of the earth and the air, the secrets of the fire and the frost."

"A war," he breathed. "A war against the gods."

"I will show you," said the stranger. "I will teach you how."

* * *

#### 3\. Mercia, the ninth century

Thalis had been a multitude of shapes over the years.

He had been a sword, narrow, variegated.  
He had been a tear in the air.  
He had been in the dullest of stars.  
He had been a word among letters.  
He had been a book in the origin.  
He had been the light of lanterns. 

He could assume any form he wished. He had only to speak and the world would change around him. The deep well that had once existed inside of him was now a neverending storm. His name was terror on his enemies' lips.

He had destroyed hundreds of Saxons over the centuries, and his legend had grown and spread. Not as neatly as Myrddin's, of course, but enough to make him more powerful. Enough to make him a valuable ally to the giants and demons he fought alongside. Enough that he could now see the borders of divinity, almost within arm's reach.

The Saxons and their gods had fought for so long, but soon they would fall and Thalis and Myrddin and their allies would rise. 

The turning point was at hand. He knew it the way that he knew the taste of his own blood. 

But he couldn't have seen Niviane. Maybe Myrddin could, but if he did he was too trapped in the ties of his own fate to do anything about it. 

Foolish. So foolish. Myrddin hadn't looked closely enough. He had been too focused on the gods of the Saxons to notice that other gods were joining the war. He hadn't understood that the beautiful woman who shone like the moon itself had been sired by a far-off goddess. That she would be his eventual downfall. 

What must it be like, Thalis wondered, to desire another being that much?

It was Niviane's sword that wounded Myrddin, and her magic that trapped him inside a stone prison for eternity. 

Without Myrddin, it was only a matter of time before Thalis was defeated as well. 

He was bound with thorns of bronze, trapping him in a single form, and left to hang from a tree. 

Over the next nine days and nights, every scrap of power and legend he had managed to gather was drained from his body. No more changes. No more divinity. Nothing left but this weak flesh and, he was surprised to discover, his soul.

At the end of the ninth night, just before dawn, someone came to him. He looked in worse shape than Thalis felt: an old man, covered in scars and the grime of battle, wearing an old bandage over one eye. The crows of the air circled over him like carrion birds.

"It's difficult," the newcomer said, "losing a son." Seeing Thalis' eyes widen, the newcomer gave a hoarse bark of laughter. "No, I'm not him. Nor do I consider him anything but an enemy."

Thalis felt his heart sink. His executioner. 

"But as I said," the old man said, "it is difficult losing a son. I know this too well. Your old friend never had any to lose. But you did, and he used that to gain your trust. You were his perfect tool. You fought well and were noble in defeat. You were..." he seemed at a momentary loss for words. "...you were something magnificent. My son was--" and there he stopped. He shook his head sadly. "You were magnificent. That's why you're here."

"Why?" Thalis rasped through a dessicated throat. 

The old man gave him a wolfish grin. "To see if you could do it. To see if you could hang from the gallows tree for nine days and nights. To see if you were worthy. Congratulations are in order."

Thalis grimaced. "So?" was all he could manage to say.

"So," the old man said, still grinning, "have you ever considered a career in _not_ allying yourself with Titans?"

And somehow, despite all the pain, all the grief, all the torture, all the centuries of rage, all the horrors that he had witness and performed... Thalis felt one side of his mouth quirk up into a smile.

* * *

#### 4\. Afterwards

What happened next, of course, is a long story.

* * *

#### 5\. Chicago, the twentieth century

The prison in Chicago was going well, so he had come for advice on how to do a similar project in Dublin. The answer, according to the Scion of Ptah, was not promising: Dublin had so much metaphysical infrastructure that there wasn't much room left. Only lesser Titanspawn would fit. 

He left feeling discouraged. 

Might as well go check up on any Aesir Scions in the city before he went home, he thought. It's only polite. 

Polite but _interminable_ , he realized. The Aesir in Chicago had grown more insular than they had since his last visit (when was that? World War 2? Or was it World War 1? He got them confused), and they were annoyingly cliquish. 

He's sure there were steps that he took that led him from where he was to where he found her sitting outside in the dusk looking so lost, but he would never remember them. He would only remember the moment after those steps, seeing her look off into the distance and then turn and look at him. 

What had it been like for Myrddin, he wondered, the first time he saw his downfall?

"I know you," she said, wonderingly. "Or... I'm _going_ to know you some day." She smiled and shrugged helplessly. "I'm still getting the hang of all of this prophecy stuff."

"It gets easier, I promise," he said. The deep well inside of him was motionless and still, as if waiting for a coin to drop into it. 

She stood, hand outstretched, and said, "I'm Evangelina Vane. Er... Evie. That's probably easier to remember."

He took her hand and, instead of shaking it, brought it to his lips for a kiss. 

"I'm Ellis," he said, as a blush crept up Evie's face. "And I don't think I could ever forget any of _your_ names."

She left her hand in his and said, softly, "Oh, Ellis, I can't _wait_ to know _you_."


End file.
